You're A Pain In The Neck. (literally.)

you're a pain in the neck. (literally.)

premise. in which you make a nuisance of yourself in every train ride you share with scaramouche. (inexplicably, he doesn't stop sitting next to you anyway.)

note. we pretend i didn't disappear for months :D enjoy

Neck pain has been increasingly common in Scaramouche's life these days.

The cause of which is sleeping peacefully on his shoulder, snoring softly as the train rattles past. The way you remain deep in slumber despite the constant lurching is impressive, but your knack for unwittingly making yourself a menace to society is even more spectacular.

Scaramouche takes a deep breath—Kazuha always did advise him to be more patient—yet the moment he does, tufts of your hair curl against his skin. A flush rises to his cheeks, body caught between freezing in place and jolting out of his seat, but he digs his fingers to his thighs and wills himself to dispel the urge to shoot upright, in fear of...

In fear of what? Shocking you awake?

Nonsense. He's never been that considerate.

(Still, once the tension bleeds from his body, he lets his shoulders drop, fitting your head snugly against the crook of his neck. He grabs your phone from your loose grip, tucks it securely in your pocket, and allows himself to stare at the dark circles beneath your eyes.

He can let himself worry for a bit.)

--

“What's wrong with you?” Kazuha's concerned gaze settles over Scaramouche's hunched figure, slumped miserably on the desk. His head is craned in a particular angle, and Childe, obnoxious as he is, had erupted in boisterous laughter when Scaramouche entered the lecture hall tilted the very same way. Unfortunately, Scaramouche had been too sore to swat away Childe's phone as he took a picture of him in a zombie filter.

“Got a crick in my neck.”

Kazuha frowns. “Did you sleep badly again?”

Scaramouche scoffs in defeat. “You could say that.”

The next time he sees you enter the train, you're drenched.

You make an effort to dry yourself, wiping rainwater out of your hair with a handkerchief and packing your wet jacket in your bag, but you're still undeniably soaked. Some passengers don't bother to hide their distaste, scooting away to other vacant seats as they shoot you a scornful look. Others aren't so cruel, offering packets of tissues and initiating small talk over the worsening weather. Scaramouche watches as your apologetic expression turns into one of gratitude, sheepishly admitting to the nice aunties you forgot to check the forecast.

Scaramouche doesn't quite give you a spare towel or send you a reassuring smile, but he broods silently from where he sits beside you, scowling at the impudent lot now sitting far, far away. Insolent fools, tactless jerks, ill-mannered garbage—a barrage of insults fly in his head, ones he has learned not to verbalize lest he gets in trouble for his crass mouth again.

When the train pauses to his stop, he pulls out a foldable umbrella from his bag, still seething. He hands it out to you, not making eye contact as he's still glaring at the woman giving you a side-eye. “Take this.”

“Uh...?” Perplexed, you hesitantly accept it. “But...”

“It's fine.” He slings his backpack over his shoulder, walking toward the sliding doors. “So don't come here drenched in the rain next time.”

He doesn't get to hear your response as he speeds off.

--

“I'm an asshole.”

“Is this your moment of self-discovery?”

“Congratulations.”

Scaramouche's eyebrow twitches, but he's much too panicked to make a snarky quip to fire back. It's his fault for picking the wrong people to talk to, anyway—Heizou is a smartass and Xiao has a perpetual stick up his ass. He should've confided to the empathetic Aether instead, or to Venti who gives surprisingly good advice when you least expect it.

“So what made you realize it?” Heizou bites down on a pork cutlet, apparently finished with his daily quota for pissing him off and now fulfilling his obligations as a friend. “Did something happen?”

“Does it have anything to do with how you arrived soaking wet to class?” Xiao adds, poking the tofu on his plate.

“Perhaps you tried stealing an umbrella on your way here?”

“You got it backwards, dumbass. I gave away mine,” Scaramouche scowls.

“That sounds like you did a good thing, then. What's wrong?”

The way he gave it away so roughly. The way he said you could use it so condescendingly. How he'd forgotten to offer words of comfort, no matter how painful or awkward for him, because he'd been so absorbed in pointless matters. How he'd completely ruined his chances of being friends with you by acting like an indifferent jerk.

All because he was too embarrassed to say he's worried you'll catch a cold from the rain.

--

When Scaramouche takes the train the way home, it's him who's dripping rainwater everywhere.

Karma had gotten his new umbrella stolen from the rack, it seems. He just bought it from the convenience store, damn it.

So now he stands by the doors, too reluctant to go any further inside the train. His wet sneakers squeak beneath his feet, hair sticking uncomfortably on his forehead. His shirt clings to him like second skin, and the only thing retaining his modesty (because of course he falls prey to downpour the one time he wears a white button-up) is a heavy sweater vest soaked in water.

“So much for telling me not to come here when I'm drenched.”

A small towel drapes itself over his head, and Scaramouche quickly turns on his feet. Your mouth is curled into a grin when you step to the spot by his side, but not unkindly—you aren't here to mock him or return his cruel words.

Scaramouche grabs the towel sitting atop his head, drying his hair with it. As he does so, you make no move to leave even with plenty of vacant seats remaining unoccupied.

“... Aren't you going to sit?”

“Hm? No.” You're already holding onto a handrail, staring ahead.

“...Why not?”

“I'm keeping you company.”

???

“Oh, and your umbrella.” You fish it from your bag, holding it out for him to take. “Cute pattern, by the way.”

“Wha-” he's about to say ‘what are you talking about,’ but then he sees the cute star print, the gold sparkles bright against navy blue, and his hair rises on end, face flushing a deep red. Nahida was the one who packed it for me...!

“...Cute.”

“I heard you the first time,” he grumbles under his breath, accepting it from your hand.

An endeared smile crosses your face, one that he doesn't see as he stuffs the umbrella into his backpack.

I wasn't talking about the umbrella.

Scaramouche has always made it a habit to take the train before rush hour, but his report is due today, and so he slept for a grand total of two hours last night just to finish it. It wouldn't even be two hours if he hadn't slept through his alarm, but he wishes he'd woken up earlier; if it meant he could've avoided a crowded train, he could stand to lose some minutes of sleep.

“Can you move a bit?”

“Ow, ow...”

“Sorry, I stepped on your foot!”

“I hope nobody comes in at the next stop...”

Scaramouche empathizes with the last remark in particular, because he really couldn't handle it any more.

Presently, he's staring at the ceiling, praying for divine intervention. His neck is starting to hurt but he forces himself to face upwards, otherwise he would...

“This is tough, isn't it?” You laugh awkwardly, your chuckle turning into a wince when an elbow digs to your side. The train car is packed at full capacity, and you wouldn't be exaggerating if you were to say you felt like you were drowning in a sea of people.

“That's a massive understatement,” Scaramouche replies, wishing for death.

“Sorry. I can't go any farther than this.”

“It's fine.”

Actually, nothing is fine.

Scaramouche is trapped against the wall in the farthest location from the exit, surrounded by people from all sides, his stop is two stations away, and he has no idea how he's going to swim all the way through the doors.

Oh, and he's caged between your arms, pressed against your body, and feeling very much like a pervert for sniffing your scent, but it's simply impossible not to smell you at this close proximity (however, it's entirely his fault for thinking you smell good and trying to pinpoint what cologne you use).

Your head is resting on his shoulder, and Scaramouche learns quickly this position is a lot more embarrassing when you're conscious. And fuck, this time he can feel you breathe directly against his neck, puffs of hot air blowing on his reddened skin, and he can only hope for the best you can't sense his racing heartbeat.

You're too goddamn close, even though he can tell you're exerting your utmost effort to create some distance between your bodies. Your arms are straining pushing on the wall just so you wouldn't crush him under your weight, and as much as he should appreciate it, he can hardly think straight over the sound of his pulse in his ears. He's hanging precariously over the edge, and if he crosses his limit, he might just pass away on the spot.

Hell, if he so as much looks down, he's close enough to kiss your forehead, and-

He really shouldn't be thinking about that right now.

So yeah. Scaramouche may look like an idiot facing the ceiling, but at least he isn't at risk of cardiac arrest.

It's fine. This is fine. I'm one stop away. I can survive this. Just a little more.

But the gods above must hate his guts or something because the train screeches to a rough halt at the station, the car rattles violently, and you're squirming underneath him, his hands instinctively wrapping around your waist to steady you, but your head moves to look up at him and-

Scaramouche very nearly astral projects to another plane when he feels your lips graze against his chin.

“Hey, you okay?! Did you hit your head on the wall or something?”

He feels like he did. He's so dizzy and the world is spinning around him, but at the same time you're the only one he can see. This must be unhealthy, Scaramouche thinks, and he wonders how much blood has rushed to his head, coloring his cheeks bright pink, and if he can die from losing too much blood this way.

“Kuni?”

How do you know my name, Scaramouche isn't sure if he really says it, mind still whirring with thoughts, and oh god his hands are still on your waist-

“Your umbrella had a name tag...” You squint at the neon letters displaying the current station, “Hey, your stop is here, isn't it? Excuse me! Coming thro....”

He vaguely remembers your hands pushing him forward and the crowd parting obediently to make way for him when they see his face becoming visibly ill. The rest passes in a blur, and when Scaramouche finally comes to, he's already outside the train station.

For a brief moment, he stays frozen. Then by the corner of his eye, he notices the shopping center.

He stares at the pastel decor from the cosmetic store, approaches the vanity mirror, and if possible, his mind turns even more blank.

A faint kiss mark is stark against his chin, the same color as the lip tint you wear everyday.

“I'm not going.”

Venti sighs, disappointed but not surprised. “You never go to drinking parties with me. Why do you always head straight home after class?”

“Reasons.” Scaramouche closes his laptop and slides it inside his bag, making quick work of packing his things. “In your case, I'd advise you to go less. Being an alcoholic isn't a good look.”

“My liver is strong,” Venti insists, a cheeky grin dancing on his lips. “But seriously, what's up? Don't tell me you have a secret girlfriend you meet up with after class?”

“I was starting to think the same thing,” Aether pipes up, matching curious looks with Venti. “Or maybe you have a boyfriend? Either way, what are they like?”

“I have neither,” Scaramouche grumbles, coming off more pitiful than spiteful. “And I'm coming home early today because Nahida wanted me to get something for dinner.”

“Ehh, that's boring.”

“You're the ones making assumptions by yourselves!” Scaramouche snaps, treading towards the door. “I'm leaving. Don't call me to pick you up when you're wasted, it's Xiao's turn this week.”

“Okay, enjoy your date~”

Scaramouche doesn't even bother replying.

--

You get on the train scheduled for 4:15 everyday.

It's not that Scaramouche deliberately researched this information; he really did just catch the same train rides by chance. Over time, he began to recognize you as a familiar face, and eventually, he even became your headrest.

Not by choice, but he supposes he just has to live with it.

It's not that Scaramouche intentionally takes the same train so he could see your face. At least, that's what he tells himself as he silently pressures the retail cashier to scan his items faster and practically flies out the convenience store to rush for the train.

He glances at his wristwatch. 4:11. I'll make it. He breathes a sigh of relief, and checks the shopping list Nahida texted for good measure. Curry mix, milk, a carton of eggs...

A notification sound rings from his phone.

‘Sorry for the late notice, could you get pudding for dessert too?’

Shit.

Panic flares in his eyes and he spins on his heel, returning to the convenience store. Do I sprint? No, it's still not humanly possible to buy pudding and go back in four minutes... But I could try. Wait, wasn't there a line of customers behind me earlier? I'd still have to wait in line.

Finally, he stops running. This is stupid. Why am I working so hard just to catch this train, anyway?

Before he could even properly sulk about it, Scaramouche bumps into someone hurrying for the train. “Oh, sorry! I wasn't looking-”

Much to his surprise, your face comes into view when he looks, chest heaving for breath. You look like you've been running for a good while, hair in disarray from the wind, the reading glasses perched on your nose askew. And that's how Scaramouche knows you're in a real hurry, if you didn't even have the time to put on your contacts.

“It's okay,” Scaramouche quickly replies, stepping aside out of your path. “The train is still there, don't sweat it.”

He turns to the convenience store, mood lifted. I got to see them, so I guess this way is fine, too.

--

When Scaramouche returns from shopping, he comes back to a strange sight.

“Huh?”

“What are you looking at?”

Good question.

Why was he looking at your figure, still waiting for the next train to come by?

“No, well...” The plastic bags in his hand crinkle when he tightens his grip on them. Scaramouche blinks repeatedly, trying to see if you'll somehow fizzle out of existence if he closes his eyes enough. “You definitely could've made it in time for the train, so why are you still...”

Your lips stretch to a small smile. “I didn't.”

No. You definitely did.

You were at a distance where it'll only take three minutes max to reach the train even if you walked the same pace as a turtle. So why...

“Your face can be surprisingly expressive sometimes, Kuni. You're practically a walking question mark right now.”

“Ku-” He stops himself from speaking before his voice could crack.

“Sorry, you don't like me calling you that?” You're tilting your head at him, putting on puppy eyes. Oh no.

“...No. It's fine.” Damn it. Aether was right—he really is a softie.

However, he's still busy pondering. Sure, it's a stroke of luck and Scaramouche won't look a gift horse in the mouth, but why didn't you take your usual train? You were even running towards the station, arriving with wind-tousled hair and disheveled clothes.

“I was waiting.”

Scaramouche blinks. “For what?”

You stare at him in disbelief, like you seriously can't believe he doesn't know. That's when Scaramouche notices some things about you are a little different from earlier.

Your hair is fixed now, no strands randomly sticking up in the air. Your clothes are neat and tidy too, creases patted down. Your glasses are gone, and Scaramouche isn't sure if it's just his mind playing tricks on him or the color of your lips appears more vibrant from earlier.

He flinches when a sigh escapes you. But then the frown on your face is replaced with a dazzling smile, exasperated but fond.

“Who do you think I'm waiting for, dummy?”

BONUS: A look into the future.

“Has anyone ever told you your chin is really sharp?” Scaramouche grumbles under his breath, movements heavily restricted when your arms are wrapped tightly around his torso and the edge of your chin is stabbing his neck. Cooking breakfast proves to be a lot more of a challenge when a koala is clinging on his back.

“No,” you chirp, grinning ear to ear as you watch him stir the pancake batter over his shoulder. “Has anyone ever told you how cute you look in an apron?”

Scaramouche glowers. “No.” If a living person actually did, they wouldn't be for long.

“That's good.” If possible, you squeeze him even tighter, nuzzling against his face. “I want to keep the adorable Kuni to myself.”

“Disgusting.”

So he says as he leans his head closer when you peck him on the cheek.

Some things just never change, he guesses.

ngl if you were to write the unspeakable things you wanted to do to that little twink I’d read it 10 times over lmao /lh

wanderlust (ruins in the wind) | scaramouche (wanderer) x reader

✦ tags ; afab + gn reader, described to be taller and stronger than scaramouche, submissive!scaramouche (not proper d/s but he's definitely submissive), virginity loss, handjobs, fingering (f!recieving), creampies, cum-swapping, fingersucking, praise, faux sympathy + mocking, overstimulation, reader carries scaramouche to bed and to a bath, aftercare, love confessions but scaramouche is scaramouche, reader is a mercenary and sword user, scaramouche is demisexual coded a lil bit, petnames (reader calls scaramouche sweetflower + brat. scara calls reader bonehead lol)

✦ mild spoilers for the archon quest and interlude + fic is written in scaramouches perspective

✦ wc ; 7.3k (im about to throw up rn)

✦ a/n ; dear god in heaven a stupid twink with so many problems has captivated me. im insane. i want to fuck this emotionally stunted idiot so bad. also scaramouche is in love with reader he is just fucked up i prommy

✦ synopsis ; scaramouche has never really cared for intimacy or romance. he likes the way you lick his wounds.

Scaramouche is not swayed easily. He doesn't not care for the whims of mortal men, or of finnicky human emotions. He doesn't care about justice or injustice, life or death.

And perhaps, in part, this is all because he is empty. Puppets often are, and with his strings effectively severed - he is nowhere to be found except in the corners. Beneath shadows, and under leaves.

It's important to know that Scaramouche doesn't sway easily, and that he desires little. It's even more important that it's understood of him, that this is not something that has fallen upon him easily. This... feeling he harbors towards you - did not happen easily. It wasn't born suddenly. It wasn't like a beating thrum of hearts that perfectly molded into some sickly fairytale.

In fact, implying as much is insulting. Nothing about this affair feels like those pointless love stories people love to drone about.

Scaramouche wasn't swayed by you easily. If he had to make any comparison, it would be like bracing the storms in Snezhnaya. Frostbitten with ice filling his lashes, withstanding a force greater than nature.

He doesn't understand it himself.

Since he's become the Wanderer, he's had a chance to observe life as it moves. The people who come and go he never too gets close to. Every now and again, Nahida will come and keep eye on him.

He isn't lonely. He couldn't be.

But meeting you has proved that he is capable of yearning for something, unfortunately. A meeting of pure chance, of a wanderer and a mercenary. Neither of you committed to any single place, crossing paths to his detriment.

Over and over, like a cruel twist of fate - Scaramouche finds himself in your company. If you're not aiding him in battle, you're cradling his wounds. Pouring salve over them with a bandage between your teeth and a coy look in your eyes.

Sometimes, you kiss the bruises on his knees. And instead of pushing you, he finds himself crumpling under the weight of your touch. It's shameful. Displeasing.

But despite it, his body seems to hone in on your absence. He thought he'd abandoned such things ages ago. His sensitivities.

And yet, he's like this. Tipping his chin up when you call his name, resisting the feeling when your fingers trace his jaw. He can always feel the lingering heat of you, a sharp line from the bottom of his ears to the point of his chin. You relish holding his gaze, sadistically refusing him when he tries to look somewhere else.

Scaramouche tries to resist it. He pushes and shoves and fleets. He loathes it after all. You always pull away if he asks, but that only frustrates him more.

Sometimes, he dreams about you being more forceful. He can't admit it to even himself, waking up in a fit of shame. A hot flash under his skin as his sleep conjures up images of it.

Scaramouche has been nothing but adamant to forget about you.

But again and again and again - your hands linger on him. Brief touches that awaken every nerve in his body.

Scaramouche isn't swayed easily, but when you come to his quarters in the late evening - he doesn't turn you away. He steps aside to let you, and complains when you close the door.

You're together again for a mission. Or rather, the end of a mission - a successful run of intel gathering on the beloathed Doctor has set you in a far-off inn on the edges of Sumeru.

You'd gotten separate rooms per his insistence, but you've come by anyway. Typical, really.

"What are doing here?" He says, voice flat. You chuckle softly as you come in, steel-toed boots noisy with your steps. You sit on this bed with ease, leaning back on your palms as he joins you in the room. He crosses his arms his chest.

"I was bored."

"If you're bored you can sleep instead of pestering me,"

You give him a small smile, making him deepen his frown.

"My energy is up from all the fighting, I'm afraid. " You reply nonchalantly. He scowls.

"And what exactly am I supposed to assist you with? Stop being a nuisance and get out."

"So cold aren't you, Wanderer," You say, nonplussed "Couldn't you be a bit more kind to your dear friend?"

"You've finally lost it, haven't you?"

"No, not yet. You seem like you'd benefit from some release, too. We could always help each other out. Just like always,"

There's something in your suggestion that makes his skin feel like it'll singe if it's touched. He scoffs, turning his head away from you.

"What are you implying?"

You shrug.

"It doesn't suit you to play clueless," You say, half-way between sarcasm and sincerity "Are you sure you don't have any idea?"

The pressure in the room gets more intense as each second passes. He chokes out his next words, lodged in his throat.

"O-of course not. Don't be ridiculous,"

When you stand up, he feels his stomach tense. His whole body feels strange at the sound of your voice. If he has no heart, what's this tension? This pulse so clearly emanating in your body as you stand to your feet?

It's hard for him to be intimidated, but you walk towards him and he feels himself shrink. A slow walk-back until he's stopped. You place your hand on the wall behind him, next to his head as you smile. Your teeth almost glint when you do.

"What was it you always say about truth and honesty?" You lean in and you're far too close. Your voice drops, a whisper in the night.

"W-what does this have to do with that?"

"Everything, of course." You hum. Scaramouche wants to shove you away when your hand cups his face. It's disgusting. He should shove you away.

His knees feel weak.

"Scaramouche," You repeat, face inches away from his "Won't you admit it to me?"

"Admit what."

"That you wish to be adored?" You say with the lightest laugh he's ever heard in his lie "That you want me to adore you?"

He doesn't know what to say. He scoffs.

"You must have some sort of death wish."

You click your teeth at him.

"Nothing like that. I have a very simple wish, Scaramouche. Would you care to hear it?"

He avoids your eyes

"As if I have a choice."

"I want to know what face you make when I've pleasured you."

Everything comes to a halt. His eyes nearly pop from how wide he opens them, mouth open in shock. A noise of indignance leaves him, ready to push back. Only to settle his gaze upon the seriousness in your face. The... hunger so distinct in your eyes that he can't.

"Watch your mouth if you wish to live." He spits.

"I phrased it as pleasantly as I can, so don't shy away from me, yes?" You say, soft and careful, returned to that sunlight he's used to "Have you felt it before? Pleasure? Desire?"

"Be quiet."

"What does pleasure look like on that delicate face of yours? Those sweet little features you hide with a scowl? You've told me your story in such detail, Wanderer," You cup his face, forcing his expression forward once more. Smiling, you rub your thumb on his lip "That you're a puppet. Yet, you're fashioned prettily like some sort of porcelain doll."

"You—you, how dare you—"

"I know what your wandering heart longs for. Aside from revenge, from acceptance - you so desperately wish for adoration. That's what you sought for. From godliness, you wished for worship."

To this, he can't say anything. He curses and spits, but he can't form words to counter you. You've seen through him in this way, and while he cannot face his defeat - he can't counter the truth.

Adoration is such an unfamiliar word.

But memories of the beginning of his life come up, push through him like a thorn in his side. Scaramouche thinks of the moments, brief as they were, when he was cherished.

And something washes over him that he wishes to erase.

"You're flushed. Have you realized it? I can give you your every desire, if only you permit it," You tell him, no longer masking the disgusting sincerity in your voice "But I am not so lawless to force you."

"You're twisted."

"Would you have liked me if I wasn't?"

"Who says I can do anything more than tolerate you?"

"The fact you haven't pushed me far, far away."

For a long time, he's silent. Your stare isn't intimidating. You're not intending to intimidate. The storm of conflict ripping through him, the turmoil—it's his own affliction. He can only shift a handful of the blame on you. He will pretend it's all your fault.

But he's wavering in front of you. Why hasn't he pushed you far away? Why doesn't he want to?

He can't question it. But he can't say it explicitly, either. So he tells you a half-way truth.

"...Do as you please."

The way you brighten up angers him.

"Do you mean it?"

"Don't make repeat myself."

Your smile makes him...upset. Not angry, but not happy. He tsks as you lean into him again.

"Have you ever done it before?"

"So what if I haven't."

"Don't be so defensive. I'm wondering where we should start if that's the case. Have you kissed before?"

He shakes his head and you nod, processing the information.

"Open your mouth a little, and close your eyes."

He frowns, but does as you ask. He closes his eyes and waits for you. Your hands are slightly calloused, likely from wielding a sword. But they're distinctly warm. You wrap around the nape of his neck. He can feel you bend down, inching to him. Time feels like it's slowed down.

"Relax, Scara," You whisper against his lips "Let go."

Before he understands what's happening, he can feel your lips on his. At first, he wants to open his eyes. At the same time he doesn't. It's a simple press of lips to start.

But then you open your mouth. And out of instinct, he does the same. It feels like something then, the deep cradling his lips to yours. Your lips are smooth and soft, and your hand is careful.

He can't keep track once you've begun. He can feel his legs wobble, - hands fisted at his side because he doesn't know what to do with them. As if reading his mind, you take his arm until it's around your shoulders.

"Hold on to me, sweetflower."

"Don't call me that," He huffs, out of breath. How is he supposed to breath?

You smile.

"No promises,"

Before he can protest again, you're kissing again. Deep like before, but it feels different. You pull away more and without control over it, he chases the feeling. He can feel the rigid line of your teeth in his lower lip as you tug on it - just before pushing your tongue in his mouth.

At first, he doesn't welcome it but once he adjusts - he finds himself opening his mouth deeper. He keeps repeating in his head. That he'll stop you. Himself.

But every time he works up the false courage, he's melting. It all becomes noise. He wants to know what your tongue feels like again. Why it's so hot and so wet and why he doesn't like when you pull away.

He wants to know what face you're making so he opens his eyes, just slightly. Lidded, to look at you. And you look... well not bad.

Even without having done this, he knows you're experienced. He can feel how easy it comes to you, and in some way it annoys him.

"Cute," You say as you pull away. He huffs out "You're cute, Wanderer."

"Don't. Why'd you—"

Before he can finish the thought, he can feel your arms underneath his thighs - hoisting him up. A sound leaves his mouth as you look up at him. He wants to be angry, but he's flush at how easily you did it. How strong you are. He wraps his legs around, worried he's going to fall.

"Are you insane?"

"We should do this proper in bed."

He feels you set him down on the mattress, his body indenting in the weight before joining him. The weight of you is... odd. The contact is alien. Scaramouche hasn't experienced it, in any capacity, in so long. But never like this. The brief moments are from you but they're so fleeting in comparison.

He's so aware of all of it. Every sensation, the thick tension in the air as you slot your legs between his. He can feel you everywhere, your arms resting on either side of his head. You touch his hair on the occasion, twirling it between your fingers.

All you do is kiss him and you do so awfully slowly. Deeply in a way where you're exploring his mouth and he feels the fight in him curbing. He can feel something stir in his stomach, blood flowing somewhere he wishes he wouldn't. He convinces himself it's just a physical response. Of course he would react like that, he was fashioned as a human so of course—

Your knee presses to his cock and he stiffens. Eyes blown open as you kiss him like nothing happened. He pushes you off a little, eyes widened and you look at him confused.

"You alright?"

"Your—you touched me..."

"Oh, you mean how I pushed my thigh up? Are you sensitive?"

"Don't push it," He hisses, before frowning "It was...well I don't know. It was weird."

"Weird? That the best you can come up with? You can say it felt nice."

"As if I'd say that."

"You sure? That it doesn't feel nice, I mean?"

You do the same gesture as before. The angle puts gentle pressure on him. Half hard through silky fabrics leaves him biting his tongue, an insult he'd prepared—effectively lodged in his throat.

"Your body is more honest than you are," You say, words laced with amusement "You look overwhelmed."

"You must be daydreaming," He snaps. You grin.

"Having you beneath me sure feels like it" You reply, standing on your knees "I want to see more of you."

He sits up with you, unsure of what else to do. You're gentle in your movements. He detests it. He tells himself that as he sits up, eyes steady on your form. You undress him, first undoing all the intricate ties and knots.

Then your hands creep underneath the white robe that's come loose, Rough skin, filled with heat, that he can feel on his waist. He holds his breath.

"Quite the delicate thing aren't you," You whisper, voice coarse with desire "If I hadn't seen you fight, I wouldn't have believed it."

"Shut up."

It's the best he can do. Because the visual and the sensation is all too much. Your hands square on his sides, eyes looking up at him with familiar mischief is too much and he just wants you to shut up. He covers his face with the back of his arm as your thumb dips underneath his shirt.

You pull the bottom of his turtleneck up slowly, revealing his abdomen. Your gaze is fixed on him, keen in taking in every detail.

"Stop looking so much. You're—."

"You're beautiful," You say, rushed in a sharp breath. You look at him between your lashes and the sarcasm he had prepared dies on his lips. Everything comes apart "Without even trying, you've reached divinity,"

What is he supposed to say to that? He flushes, heat rushing to his face all at once. You tilt your head to one side as you lay him down slowly. His clothes are all splayed, pants low on his hips - shirt pulled just over his chest. Humiliating.

"You like being adored don't you?" You're hardly saying it to him. It's mostly to yourself, in between pressing kisses along his stomach - slowly till you're up to his chest "You always react to it nicely."

"What are you doing?"

"Foreplay," You state smoothly "Normally, I'd get right to it but I don't feel like it with you."

"With me?"

"When you've coveted something, you savor it more when it's finally yours."

You push him up towards the headboard before joining him. Undressing him fully, white robe discarded with the shirt too. He doesn't know what to do with himself. He's lived a long time. It's not like he doesn't know what happens here. At least in theory he does.

But it's different in practice. He's floundering, watching you as you slot yourself between his legs. Stood on your knees, you mimic his state of undress. He's never seen you like that before. There's scars on your body he's never thought of.

He can see your breasts. The shape and softness and swell hidden behind something that pushes them flat. And you take that off too, without thinking twice about it. He's so conscious of it, he can't look away. Your whole body is there. Shoulders and stomach and chest and back and Scaramouche is... taken by it. Desire doesn't come gently.

"You can touch them," You say, noticing his fascination with a laugh. He swallows, pushing himself up with his arm, using his free hand to hold one. He can't fathom the feeling until they're in his hands.

Fascinated, he wants to retract at the intensity. Yet, he wants to know more about it, cursing himself for hundreds of years of disinterest.

"Your intrigue with my body is surprising," You say, looking down at him "I thought this was more one-sided,"

"Not that you've ever been bright, but surely getting this far is enough of an indication of where we stand. Use your brain for more than swordfighting, will you?"

Your grin is so bright it's blinding and he can't stop himself from letting the corners of his mouth twitch up. He pulls his hand away, laying back in attempt to cover his expression up.

""Since when have you coveted me?" He asks.

"Since the beginning." You reply

He doesn't get a chance to ask about it more. You lay on top of him again, hovering slightly as you kiss more. It shuts him up effectively, quietly huffing as you pull away. You go quiet, no longer mouthing off at him, your plane your palms over his sides.

You kiss the corners of his mouth as you hold him - tracing his jaw with feather light kisses. He rests his arms over your shoulders like before, resisting all the sounds that threaten to leave his lips. There's a tear in his cheek from all the biting.

Slowly, slowly like water trickling through a creek - Scaramouche feels your mouth. Your tongue feels like it'll burn him as it trails down his neck. Teeth sharpened on every inch of him. You do it languidly, each part of him attended to carefully. He can feel your lips on his chest, and he stiffens,

But you're not concerned. He stares at you as you fondle his chest, thumb brushing over his nipples and waiting for his reaction. You must be pleased with whatever you see because you start to go in circles, slow and precise rolls of the hardened bud between your fingers.

His body has always been like this. He's gotten used to enduring pain in order to fight, but the sensitivity is familiar. He bruises easily and he used to hate cuts.

But it's different like this. Being so attentive to everything, like the soft fat of your chest pressing against his ribs. Your hands on his back, dipping into his waist band, your mouth and his cock that's twitching so desperately between his legs the longer this goes on.

You slowly tug his shorts from down his waist, until it's just his undergarments left. His cock is hard now. The tip is leaking just enough that it's making a damp circle where it's restrained. Your hand cups the outline, thumb pressed over the slit.

And Scaramouche whines. Never in his life has he felt it. He couldn't picture it if he tried, but he feels it and he whines.

You grin against his skin, a smile on your lips as you touch him tenderly.

"Was it weird this time too?"

"S-shut up, just sh-shut up."

You lay in his side, taking all of it off till he's all bare. His cock is hard, stood to attention. Without a warning, you wrap your hand around the base, craning your neck to kiss his pulse. Your teeth tug on his ear lobe as you stroke his shaft, go agonizingly slow.

And Scaramouche is twitching in your hand. He's so hard and his head feels like there's vines wrapped around his whole body. His hips move without his permission, rutting into your palms.

"Have you touched yourself before?"

"Of course I have, but it's—it's n-not—Archons,"

"It's not like this, right?"

"Hnnn."

Like a body that's never felt pleasure before. Scaramouche forgot momentarily, that he never has done anything in this body. Not pleasure nor pain, like a brand-new weapon. Sharp. Untouched. He has this realization as you fist his cock without any mercy and every fiber in his being is working to stop himself from making a mess in your hands.

He doesn't want it to be over too soon, but you're relentless. He's gasping for air by the time he feels it. Eyes blown open in something akin to fear.

"S-slow down, slow, I - please, slower."

There's something terrifying about being so close. It's the come down. It's the inevitable drop that's going to follow. And even if he'd rather eat glass than admit aloud to anything vulnerable, he is so starved of touch and it's only taken him up until now to know. You feel so good and Scaramouche is so late about it that all he can do is beg you to slow down.

But of course, it's not that easy. Why would it be?

"Why should I?" You taunt, and you're expecting an answer. He can hear that you are and he wants to kill you for a minute.

"I'll—It's going come out, if you just—"

"You can cum, Scaramouche." You say, voice all breezy "I told you I'd give you anything you desire. You want me to keep going, don't you? Even after you cum?"

And then, relenting a little, he shudders.

"Don't stop. D-dont stop, ngh."

"Cum for me, Scaramouche. Show me what face you make."

He can hardly bear the shame as he cums. Like the body of an arrow, pulled so taut - Scaramouche feels all the tension in his body release at once. He shudders, hard, covering his face with the back of his hand and trying to muffle his voice.

Humiliated, he pulls his hand back and huffs. He can't imagine the expression on his face, confirmed by the satisfaction on yours when you look at him. With your free hand, you tilt his face towards you - kissing him one more time until he's chasing your lips.

"Did it feel good, Scara?"

He's in too deep. Far too deep. He feels like he's being held captive by some force.

"...It was fine."

You grin.

"Good boy."

"Shut up," He says, half-hearted and increasingly desperate "Just—"

"Just kiss you?" You tease, as he makes effort to climb over you "Is that at all?"

"You love asking idiotic questions." He says with no real bite. Fed up with being under you, he scowls. The humiliating mess he's made in your hands in covering your palms and he goes to wipe it away

But before you can, you prop yourself up on your elbow and lick your hand clean without even flinching. If he wasn't so embarrassingly turned out, he would've used his vision to blow you into the next room. He pulls your hand away from your mouth, expression dusted pink.

"What are you doing?"

"Cleaning? You taste nice, Scaramouche," And with the most annoying self-satisfaction, you stick your tongue out "Wanna try?"

He doesn't have a chance to ask because you're pulling him ontop of you again, hair tugging on the roots of his hair and kissing him. He can taste himself, and he winces. It's bitter and salty, but the way you're moaning into his mouth is tricking his body because he can feel something stir in his stomach again.

He pulls away, nose scrunched.

"That was awful. How'd you do that without flinching? What's wrong with you?"

"I've tasted worse. Yours really is pleasant." You say with a grin. He wants to shove you away. He wants to kiss you again.

You take a minute to get comfortable. Pillows placed under you, you lay on your side - gesturing for Scraramouche to join you. He does, of course he does. And he stares at you, frustration and desire and want all culminating to make something awful.

"Do you want to stop here?"

"I don't like owing people favors," He says flush. You give a deep, belly-laugh that makes him want to suffocate you.

"What a bad habit you have with honesty, Wanderer. What do you want to do? Do you wanna try touching me while you get it up again?"

He nods, not even bothering to counter your crass words. Your face softens. And everything has taken a shift from hard and fast, to noticeably intimate. Scaramouche can feel the tension in the air, clinging to his rib cage as you reach for his wrists. You open his hands up, shaping them - before you pull them towards.

It's not brief like last time. It's a full touch, his whole palm squishing the fat between his fingers. He looks up and your eyes are lidded, like you're enjoying. He's trying to remember how you touched him, how to mimic it.

So he gets ontop of you, determined to accomplish something. Just like you minute ago, bodies pressed together. He gropes them both and looks up at you - aware of the differences between you. Of height and of stature. He rolls his thumb over your nipples and you make a sharp noise.

And with a little more confidence, he ducks his head down. Drags his tongue from your clavicle, down the valley of your breasts - teeth scraping the skin lightly. He can't bring it himself to kiss you, but he can bite. He's always been good at biting.

So he bites, gently, running his tongue on your hard nipples. Sucking gently. Watching as your expression changes, the way you swallow around spit the more he does it. Scaramouche may doesn't like losing.

"There you go," You all but coo, and his resolve wavers "That feels good."

His chest aches at the approval.

"Do you want to try touching me? Like, actually touching me?"

He feels something that he wants to bat away. A rush. It sweeps past him all at once. He's never really thought about such things before. About...another persons body. He always thought it wasn't programmed in him. It was another thing that added to his inhumanity. That's how he thought of it.

But this is the first time he's ever felt anything like this towards someone, and the gravity of it makes him weak. He hates that he's weak. He hates how bad he wants to touch you, after all.

He nods, and you grin. He moves so you can take your pants off, and watches as the material rolls down your thighs with a deep breath.

He sits back, between your legs. Helps you take the rest off until you're naked, and watches as you spread your legs. It's not like he doesn't know. That he's never seen or read, but it's so different.

He must look hesitant, because he hears you chuckle form above him, making his expression twist. You snake your hand down, fingers pulling yourself apart. He can see inside. It's all wet, and all soft. There's heat coming off it and Scaramouche doesn't know what to do with himself.

"You can touch right here, my clit. Slowly, like this."

His hands are trembling as he reaches out. His hand resting on your navel, he drags his thumb on your clit in the same way he did before. You shudder, pushing your hips up. He does it again, in slow circles. Thoughtfully, watchin as your body pulses under him. He's so intrigued by it. Nervous to make a mistake and careful to keep the momentum.

You groan and Scaramouche almost pulls away.

"Haah, there you go. You think you can go a little farther than that?"

"Farther?"

"Get me ready so you can put it in," You say with missing a beat. He gasps "If you want to, still."

"H-how do I..?"

"With your fingers. You don't have to go too slow, but don't push it in at once. You'll feel a little resistance but it should be alright."

Reading his face, you laugh before showing him. He watches you, intent. Your hands pushing into your sex, one finger first. It's a well practiced movement. Your brows are drawn together tight as you pump them in and out - stretching yourself out in front of him.

He can hear you take your fingers out, and you gesture him. You spread your legs for him as he comes up to kiss you. He can only assume that's why, but before you can reach - he's feeling your fingers slip between his lips.

"Open up, sweetflower," You pull his lip down with your thumb, pushing thick fingers into his mouth "Thought it was only fair."

"Mmph," When it registers what he's tasting, sweet and slight in comparison to before, his eyes flutter. He's transfixed by it, and suddenly feels his hips nearly rutting for friction. You taste good, by comparison.

He doesn't know whats happening to his head, but he doesn't stop you when you start to move. Fucking his mouth open with your rough hands that he's starting to long for.

"Messy little brat," Your voice is full of adoration, breathy. It's effecting you at least half as much as it's effecting him "You love making messes, don't you?"

He huffs and frowns but he does. He hates to admit it but he's enjoying the coaxing. The petnames, the empty-headed responses. Whatever his body is experiencing is out of his control. Even when it's frightening - when its awful, he wants more of it.

"Look at you drooling all over me," You say, a little meaner. It's that sickly taunting. He's heard you do it tens of times. In interrogations and in arrests "Maybe if you're nice, I'll let you taste me, really. That'd be nice right?"

He blinks up at you, unsure of what else to do. He hears you groan.

"Sometimes, you make me angry enough that I want to be cruel to you," You admit, pushing your fingers out until his mouth is stretching "But other times, like this, you looks so desperate to be loved that I want to give you the world. What should I do?"

His cock twitches hard.

"Your innocence is intact. Cock untouched and needy, it's cute. Would you consider kindness or discipline if I ruined it your purity?"

He pulls aways with a huff. He's desperate.

"Mercy," His voice is hoarse. It's the only time, he'll ever be able to say it clearly "It'd be mercy."

You smile at him.

"Good answer. Come here."

Scaramouche nods. He has to get the angles right. Even after watching you do it, the task feels impossible. He shakes the nerves out of him and watches you instead, focusing on something else.

He's never been to keen on appearances. On bodies and of what makes someone attractive and what doesn't.

Maybe, it's the knowing you. Knowing what you look like half-asleep, and knowing that you're a rowdy drunk and know that you've kissed some of the other people in your platoon and maybe it's because he knows you well enough. But he is reacting, intensely, to the sight of you with your legs spread.

And he thinks that he'd take you in whatever way you asked of him, no matter the fact he'd prefer to die than admit it.

He starts with his middle finger, slow. It's what you describe, there's resistance. But he wasn't prepared for how warm you were. Hot inside and so wet that he hardly has to try to go further in. You moan above him and it's nauseating how much he wants you to do it again.

When he's down to his knuckles, he pulls out and pushes back in. A repetitive motion until there's no longer any resistance. And he repeats the action, stretching you out until it doesn't feel too tight. He feels around, instinctually, committing it to memory because he has no idea where things go after things end.

He hits a particularly spot, different from the rest. Spongier and noticeable, and you choke on air.

"It feels good there," You say, laughing through it "But I'm getting impatient. We can get into another time."

The promise of another time rings in his head loudly as he pulls his hands way. He doesn't know what to do with himself. He watches you sit up, and your expression is flushed and panting. And you're smiling, because you're always doing that.

But for the first time, Scaramouche is relieved and not entirely agitated. He can't believe the state he's in, but the shock can only come later because right now he's vulnerable and dependent on you. For clarity and guidance and reassurance and everything else.

So he's relieved when you're sitting across from each other and you kiss him so innocently. It's terribly tender. When you pull away, you kiss the corners of his mouth. And his eyelids and the place where his ears meet his jaw.

"What are you doing?"

"Kissing you."

"Why."

"What do you want to hear? The truth or something to appease you?"

"The truth." He insists.

"Because I like you."

He hates how how that makes him feel.

"What was the other answer?"

"To embarrass you."

Being seen through like that is worse embarrassment than being effectively confessed to.

"Aren't you going to ask me if I like you? Isn't that what people usually do here?"

"Would you answer me?"

"Obviously not. As if I would."

You laugh again and kiss his lips. You're so welcoming it's gross. So inviting. So sweet. He resents your generosity.

"Then why would I? Silly question, no?"

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"Are you concerned about me?" You say, voice shrill with delight. He scoffs.

"No. But it'd be uncomfortable to see you act pitifully about it."

"I dare not ask for your heart, Wanderer."

"I don't have one, remember?"

"Wherever you hide your longing is your heart. You have one somewhere, deep down. This much, I'm sure of."

"Hearing you wax poetic makes me shiver, you bonehead." He says, failing to put any sarcasm in his voice. You merely laugh again, more soft this time.

"You'll have to forgive me." You say, another kiss but this time to his shoulder and Scaramouche breathes out "Lay down, sweetflower."

The saccharine sweet petname makes him feel a little sick. He lays down, unsure of what to do with himself. From what he knows, it's supposed to be the other way around.

The bed creaks under your movements. Scaramouche watches you closely, as you climb over him. Your knees end up on either side of him, effectively sitting on him. It dawns on him all at once what you're doing. His eyes widen as you place a hand on his chest, your feet over his thighs.

Reality sets in when Scaramouche watches you above him. Like the whole world has come to some kind of halt. Pride, anger, retaliation. All of the parts of himself he's sworn to honor when this is over, burn away to nothingness as he watches you. Your breasts hovering over him, and your palms pressed to his chest and your eyes.

Scaramouche has so much ire for you. He complains about your recklessness and bad habits often to anyone who will spare him time. How you're airheaded and that all you know how to do is wield a sword and drink poor liquor in poor taste.

There'd be nothing more embarassing that falling for someone as stupid as you are.

Scaramouche watches you sink down on his cock. You're deliberate about it, your hand around the base as you guide the tip to you're entrance. He can't even describe the sensation in it's entirety. His whole body gives out the minute he feels you stretch around him.

You're hot inside. So hot it feels like his whole body is melting. Tight enough that he can't imagine the whole thing going in despite the fact he's watching it happen. You lower yourself slowly, inch by inch and Scaramouche doesn't know what to do with his hands. He grabs your hips out of instinct. Gritting his teeth overwhelmed, he groans as he bottoms out.

"Oh, fuck." Scaramouche tosses his head back, groaning. It's guttural and deep, his cock throbbing. A dull heat settles in the base of his stomach.

Every muscle in his body is working over-time trying to keep himself from cumming. He opens his eyes to look at you, the expression on your face twisted in pleasure and the task becomes so much harder.

"You feel so good," You mumble, leaning forward "Haah—Scaramouche, you feel good. Can I move?"

"Ngh, y-yes."

You nod. Scaramouche is transfixed by the sight of you. He hates to admit it, reluctant to submit himself to such a reality. But he's not in any position to deny such an obvious sight. Your always-charismatic, always-charming face is pinched with focus. The arch of your body, the weight of your thighs and the shape of you lit well under the low lights. You are beautiful to the point it's agonizing and Scaramouche can't deny himself the pleasure of looking. Not that he deserves it. Not that he feels he's allowed, but that he can't stop himself from trying to etch it into his mind.

You were always meant to be another alliance of need. Scaramouche needed brawn. Just like he needed allyship in that foolish traveler and archon.

So he can't wrap his head around how he's landed here precisely. How he finds himself underneath you and fucking you, and feeling pleasure from you. It escapes him. It fills his head. He understands it now, why he all the other Harbingers seemed so obsessed with screwing their subordinates.

You bring your hand down between your legs as you find a rhythm steadily. Your fingers rub your clit in hard fast motions, and you're trembling. You bounce on his cock easily, and each time he pulls out - he can hear how wet you are when he pushes back in.

He moans brokenly, throat hoarse and scratchy as he holds onto you for dear life. Struggling to catch his breath. To think anything other than this feels good. Scaramouche wants to cum again, already. He can feel that knot in his stomach, like a rope pulled on two ends and he wants to make a mess.

"You can cum again, sweetflower," You say, noticing the strain in his movement "But that doesn't mean I'll stop."

His eyes widen as you grin at him.

"I'll stop when I get to finish. Make sense?"

Scaramouche knows he couldn't hold it if he tried. He curses at you but the words come out slurred.

"Hngh, 'm it's—I'm gonna—"

Scaramouche cums a second time, harder and faster. It feels like something is crashing into his ribs, whole body seizing tight before he thrashes. His cock is sensitive, releasing inside of you. Thinner than before, he opens his mouth letting out a groan.

Just like promised, you don't stop. You don't even slow down keeping the same steady pace. He's still half-hard but he's so achy. He can't keep up with it, eyes feeling watery from the sensation. He's humiliated and angry that he's about to cry, but he can't form the words to express it.

"What a crybaby you are, Wanderer," You say, voice filled to the brim with affection "Do you want me to stop?"

It's a genuine question, a way out. It kills his remaining pride to shake his head no, but he does. You chuckle above him, so airy like you're not fucking him like this.

"Say it," You repeat, slowing down which makes his heart sink "Say you like it." '

"Fuck you, f-fuck you," And then he shivers as you stop. It comes out as a cry "I like it, fuck you,"

You're so delighted by his response that you bend down to kiss him. You're limp, likely at your limit so your bodies are pressed together and your arm inbetween them. You're touching yourself, using him really - all while kissing him and it's all messy. All of it is unclean and impure and so messy and Scaramouche sticks his tongue out in hopes you'll make it messier.

"Gonna cum," You say, between breaths "Gonna cum soon,"

And Scaramouche can't do anything but brace himself as you do. His whole body is begging for mercy but the feeling you tightening around him is addictive. It's terrible. It's so terrible and lecherous and Scaramouche wants to kiss you again. You moan the loudest you have all night and he shudders as you fuck yourself through it.

When you finally, finally stop - Scaramouche is all but broken from the experience.

"We should shower before bed," You tell him, somehow cognizant "But give me a minute."

"Hn."

__

It's at this point Scaramouche has effectively given up on protesting whatever is happening here. After trying to stand and having his legs give up - you promptly carried him into the bathroom and set him on the counter like some sort of delicate houseplant.

Other than seeming a little tired, you seem unaffected by the whole thing. Meanwhile, Scaramouche feels like he just braced the worst storm of his life and can't find it in himself to recover fast enough.

So he lets you do as you please. Lets you help him into the bath - knees pulled to his chest and face in his knees contemplating killing you just so he can pretend this didn't happen.

But when you join him, humming that same tune from Mondstadt that your mother taught you, he can't find it himself to actually kill you. Maybe this new body has caused him to go soft. Whatever he is, he hates it.

"Sweetflower," You hum, behind him and pouring some scented soap over his back "Lift your head a bit,"

Maybe it's the exhaustion, but he find himself pushing is head back onto your shoulder. Frowning. Pouting. You seem surprised by it.

"Hi there,"

"What's your problem?" He questions, voice full of frustration. You giggle.

"Not sure."

He hates everything. He hates himself for turning around, pushing himself further into you until he's half in your lap - his face in your shoulders.

"If I catch you kissing another one of those idiots you call comrades, I'll have their head."

You freeze before your shoulders shake with laughter. He feels your lips on the top of his head, arms around his shoulders as he comes closer.

"Who should I kiss instead, then?"

"Shut up. Stop asking stupid questions." He says, looking up at you. You laugh a little, pressing your mouth against his.

"Yeah," You agree easily "Stupid question."

genshin men + first kiss ★ pt. 2

ft. kazuha, xiao, scaramouche

✽ kazuha’s gaze lingers over your lips long enough for anybody else to get the hint—anybody but you, of course. but how could you? when you’re unable to stay still, even under the warm beach sun, as soon as he smiles at you. seasickness has never haunted you as much as lovesickness has. yes, you want to hold him and yes, you can’t return his gaze for longer than two seconds. love is hard for travelers without destinations. and love is hard for you, who can’t see beyond his words, at the gaping meaning: i like you. in more ways than one. you were never a poet to begin with. so you cast aside these feelings overboard and into the sea, leaving kazuha sighing more often than beidou has patience for. and that means, she’s decided to leave the two of you stranded on an island off the coast of liyue (‘an easy little comission’, she dubs) till you can figure your feelings out, or get eaten by mitachurls. tough love makes the crux go around.

Keep reading

tbh kuni being a tittie lover is so true and i stand by that

“Do you not understand that you have ascended in the top stratum of mortals with my offer?” The emphasis tacked on his words was hard to miss, along with the clear frustration etched across his face that seemed to deepen together with your incredulity.

“Do you know what I think? I think you need to sleep.” You tugged and spread the blanket over your legs, inching just close enough to the bonfire to keep you warm throughout the night.

In disapproval or disbelief, he groaned loudly and treaded heavily in front of you. “And how do I sleep?” He sneered on your face. “How do I sleep in this condition? Pray tell.”

You closed your eyes, humming to the tune of the sleep beckoning you closer. “Well, first and foremost, you need to shut your mouth and lay down.”

“Mortals surely are the daftest creatures that have graced Teyvat. They cannot realize a blessing when they see one. How absurd,” he droned on. His mumbling and murmuring went on for minutes, deliberately causing disturbance to a rather pleasant night under the clear starry sky.

Your nose flared in impatience that you bolted upright, grateful that the blanket did not fly to the nearest fire, before facing him. “And how is refusing you to touch my breast considered daft?”

Immediately up for the challenge, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared you down. “Ha! You do not understand the weight of your words, do you? You should’ve considered yourself fortunate.”

“I have allowed you ten nights to touch my breasts while you sleep because you said it was cold. And despite seeing no correlation between the weather and your hand on my chest, I have let you in your freedom.” You were face to face with him. None of you seemed aware of the mere inch that’s separating your faces. “Tell me, what makes you so addicted to it?”

“They are soft! And supple! And I like how they feel on my hand!” He was out of breath when he finished.

So were you, with the force of his confession. It was you who broke the eye contact first by stomping back to your place.

“You can say I have grown accustomed to them,” he continued. “Perhaps one day I shall see them for myself—”

“Stop talking,” you deadpanned before breathing deeply. At last, you looked at his direction. “C… come here.”

Against the fire, you would’ve thought that his eyes brightened up a fraction. But you knew better than anyone else how he liked to keep his emotions at bay no matter the circumstances.

“You can touch them,” you murmured. “But I have rules.”

“Madness!” he was quick to retort. “You dare make rules?”

“Alright, then, good night.” You pulled the blankets over you again and prepared to lie down.

He sighed, long and ingested with patience. “Alright, alright. I will hear them: your rules.”

You raised one finger. “One, you should not speak anymore. Two, you shall not squeeze—” He gave you a stupefied look. “I’m serious. I cannot sleep when you do that. And those are my rules. How about that?”

“Shall not squeeze? You are merciless. Even I wouldn’t have thought of such cruelty.”

“Stop the nonsensical drama and lie down. Now. We have a long way ahead of us tomorrow and we shall get all the rest we can.” You tapped the space beside you, firm and solid on your words.

Surprisingly, he did not raise any more objections about the set-up. He positioned himself beside you, his hand crawling inside your shirt and finding the treasure there. Like a warm kerchief, his dainty hand cup your breast. It was only a matter of time after that before you heard him softly snoring. Again, for the 11th day, it would seem as though you were to sleep with burning cheeks and swirling stomach.

Tee imagine being vash’s first kiss :(

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。FIRST — VASH THE STAMPEDE.

「 SYNOPSIS 」 ⋮ vash has never fallen in love—not before you, that is (2.1k words)

☽ contents ⋮ mutual pining, slightly jealous vash (of nicholas), confessions, fluff

☽ notes ⋮ i don’t even think this has anything to do with the ask anymore LMAO i got carried away but here <3

“nico, get your grimy fingers off my share,” you huff, shoving nicholas’s fingers away from the last few bites of your lunch.

food is scarce these days—more so than usual, and you don’t even try to hide your hunger when you finally find a place to grab a bite. vash eyes you as your lips are curled into a soft frown, the crinkle of your brows making his throat dry—because you’re cute, even with a look of pure irritation on your face, you’re soft and angelic and you make his heart skip a beat.

“c’mon, give me a bite or two,” nicholas chuckles, sneaking his way back to reach for your share of food, “you try carrying that big ol’ cross around all day.”

this time, you slap his hand away, huffing as you shift closer to vash to put extra distance between you and nicholas. vash has to keep himself from leaning in when he feels the warmth of your body radiate against him at the proximity.

“oh, you’re such a jackass, y’know?” you grumble, rolling your eyes at the easy chuckle nicholas gives you. but vash can see it—the beginnings of a smile you try (and fail) to fight back as you shake your head. “you’re the one who insists on carrying such a flashy weapon.”

“well it saved your pretty little head a few times didn’t it?” he shoots back. nicholas is easy to talk to like that, banter filling the air between you as you dance around each other with petty taunts and sly grins and stolen touches through pokes to the forehead.

vash thinks the only time he’s ever touched you is to pull you away from danger. in fact, he thinks it’d be easier to fight off an entire city after him than pluck the courage to reach out and flick your forehead the way nicholas does. it’s so smooth, so simple, so natural—and he can from tell the way your eyes soften for nicholas that it must be love.

he glances down at his food, feels his appetite dwindle and his chest tighten, and soon enough there’s an extra share of food pressed to your hand as he stands up.

“i’m not hungry,” he smiles softly, “you have it.”

you blink for a moment before opening your mouth to protest. “but vash—”

he’s off before you can finish talking, climbing into the van and closing the door while everyone stares after his figure and blinks. you frown, looking back at nicholas who only grins wider, holding a hand out for the half eaten dinner in your hold.

“well, don’t be greedy. share the goods,” he insists.

you roll your eyes, pulling away from his outstretched hand as you glare at him.

“something’s wrong,” you announce. meryl and roberto share a look, glancing quickly between you and nicholas again before continuing eating, making your brows furrow. “you guys know, don’t you?”

“everyone does, sweet cheeks,” nicholas chuckles, shaking his head, “you’re a bit more oblivious than i thought.”

“and what’s that supposed to mean?” you glare, but he only eyes you with amusement, turning back to finish the last few bites of his dinner before standing up and walking off, mumbling about needing a smoke under his breath.

you stare back at the van, unsure whether or not you’re supposed to go after vash—whether or not he even wants you there. it takes you a few moments of contemplation before you ultimately stand up, earning a look from meryl and a sigh from roberto.

“i’m gonna go after him,” you announce.

it doesn’t take long to walk up to the van and climb in, finding vash sitting slouched on his side of the back seat, looking out the window. he almost looks…defeated—it’s a type of vash you don’t think you’ve ever really seen.

“vash?” you ask softly, making him tense for a moment before he glances at you, offering a poor attempt of a reassuring smile.

you don’t think vash has ever successfully hidden an emotion ever in his life. for as long as you’ve known him—though it’s not been that long—he’s worn his heart on his sleeve and his emotions bared before you whether he means to or not. you sit down beside him, staring at your lap as he stares out the window again.

“hey,” he says quietly, “why aren’t you with everyone else?”

“why aren’t you?” you counter gently.

“ah, well,” he chuckles nervously, painfully aware of how close your knees are from brushing, “just wanted to sit. and think, i guess,” he says quietly.

“about what?”

“just stuff,” he mumbles.

he doesn’t want to tell you he thinks about how he must be in love with you, doesn’t want to admit as much when you’ve clearly got someone else in your heart. vash has never fallen in love—but he thinks if he’d have to give the feeling a label, it’d be you.

he thinks it has to be love when the first pair of eyes he searches for are yours, making sure you’re okay before he even thinks about checking on anyone else. what else could it be besides love when even if for a split second, the very thought of you being in danger makes his gun leave its holster and ready to aim. if not love, he’s not sure what else it could be when he’s so nervous around you, he feels words stick to his throat like he’s choking.

vash has never fallen in love before, but there’s no mistaking this feeling now that it hits him.

you’re kind—maybe a bit more than you should be to him since he does nothing but drag you into danger. the rational part of him wishes you’d stop coming with him wherever he goes, it hopes you’ll see you have so much to live for outside of cleaning up his messes. the more desperate part of him feels nauseous at the idea of you going your separate ways—he can protect you, can’t he? the desert is a dangerous place with or without him and if you’re in danger one way or another, you should stick by his side where he can keep an eye on you.

no, vash has never been in love—but he’s sure as hell seen it happen before his own two eyes in the many, many years he’s lived.

and he knows you’re in love with nicholas with one painful glance.

“c’mon vash,” you nudge his shoulder with your own, “we’re friends, i know you better than that. something’s wrong. are you upset about what those people in that last town said to you? because i’ll march right up to them and give them hell and back if—”

friends.

he’s tuned you out, too hyper focused on that awful burning sensation pooling in his chest, the one that hits him as soon as you use that cruel word. of course vash is just your friend, why wouldn’t he be? he can’t remember the last time someone actually wanted him around at all let alone as something more.

he doesn’t even notice your hand reaching for his until it lays over his fist, gently unclamping it from the fabric of his coat. he doesn’t even notice he’s been fisting it this whole time, doesn’t even notice his shoulders are tense until you lean your head on it.

“you don’t have to tell me,” you murmur gently, “i’ll wait here with you.”

“why?” he can’t help but ask, can’t help but wonder why you care to spend your time here when you could be there. with nicholas. without him.

“because i care about you.” you say it like it’s obvious, like he should already know that.

perhaps he does—you do care about him, he can see it with the way you help clean his wounds and scold him for being reckless…just maybe not in the way he wishes you would.

“are you ever going to tell nicholas how you feel?” he asks.

you sit up, shock on your face and a crease in your brows as you stare at him in bewilderment. he almost thinks he’s asked something out of line, something he should apologize for. but before he can offer you a stuttered apology, you beat him to it.

“what?” you chuckle. “do i look like i feel something for nicholas?”

“you don’t?” he sounds shocked, making you blink.

“no,” you shake your head, grimacing like the idea is an unpleasant one. “he’s a nuisance i tolerate at best.”

“oh,” is all he says, surprised. it’s silent for a moment before he hesitantly asks, “is…is there someone?”

he doesn’t want to know the answer either way. yes means the pain of knowing there’s someone else he has to let you go to. no means it’s not him even with no one else to compete with at all. but he figures whether your answer is yes or no, it’s enough to force him to let go.

“well…” you hesitate for a moment, inhaling before letting out a shaky breath and slumping back to his shoulder, “can i be honest?”

“of course,” he says instantly.

“i don’t know how you’ll take it,” you admit quietly, and he can hear the slight shakiness in your voice—like you’re nervous, like what you’re about to say will change everything.

but vash knows no matter what you’ll say, no matter what you’ll ever do, he’ll still keep loving you even if you don’t need him to.

“is it embarrassing?”

“no,” you shake your head, “well, maybe a little. depends on how you react. i might look stupid.”

“can’t be worse than running out of bullets,” he smiles softly, “i bet i looked pretty stupid then.”

“a little,” you admit, giggling. and then you both laugh softly, your cheek against his shoulder and your hand gently clasped over his. distantly, you can hear nicholas ask where you are—and you know it’s not long before you’ll lose this rare moment alone. so you take a deep breath, stare at your hand over his as you mumble, “i think i love you. a little. actually, that’s a lie—a lot. like, a whole lot.”

he blinks.

he feels his breath hitch and your shoulders tense and his heart race all at once. for a second he thinks he might’ve heard you wrong—but then you whisper how you understand if he doesn’t feel the same way, how it’s okay, really! you understand, it’s not his fault and you can still be friends because you’re fine with friends. just as long as he’s still in your life because he’s important to you and friends is better than nothing at all.

and then he cuts you off with a soft chuckle, making you pause and glance up at him with doubt on your face.

“can i be honest too?” he smiles gently, melting your heart even as it shatters just a little in your chest.

“of course,” you whisper.

“i love you too. not a little though. a lot. i thought you had a thing for nicholas, though—”

“nico is rude and smells like smoke. i wouldn’t kiss him if my life depended on it,” you interrupt with a crinkle of your nose, making him chuckle with bright eyes and love scribbled over the curves of his features.

he leans in, presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes when your hand cups a cheek gently.

“good,” he murmurs, “but don’t worry, i’ll keep you safe. your life will never depend on kissing him.”

“good,” you hum, “because i only want to kiss you.”

and then you do, slow and sweet and so in love. it’s his first kiss—he doesn’t really know what to do, but he follows your lead and learns fast, soft lips molding with yours and mingling your warm breath with his. vash doesn’t even care he’s gone this long without feeling something as gentle as being in love. he’s in love now, with you—and he’s glad you love him too and not nicholas wolfwood, the man who keeps trying to steal dinner from under your nose.

“are you two done in there already?” nicholas is pounding on the door, making you pull away with a sour look on your face. “we got places to be. better not be baby making where i’m about to sleep.”

“can’t you make one exception and kill him?” you whine, making vash chuckle before he leans to kiss you again, more chaste this time. and again, and again.

vash has never fallen in love—and he’s sure it’s because he was meant to wait this long to fall in love with you.

© hanmas do not plagiarize, repost, translate to other sites, or recommend on platforms outside tumblr such as tik tok

𓆩♡𓆪 oblivious crushes hcs

their crush on you is as clear as day, but you seem to be wearing sunglasses

°｡⋆ kaveh, alhaitham, kaeya x reader (separately)

°｡⋆ fluff, maybe a bit ooc alhaitham, lots of touchy/clingy :( and some angst in kaeya's part

note: i haven’t gone too far into sumeru yet D: (purely bc of laziness and college) so that’s why alhaitham might be a bit ooc… but! i hope yall enjoy, i had fun. (ps. this was inspired by my short convo with @kana-dayo , i hope u don't mind the tag just tell me if you want me remove it!!)

kaveh ♡

it threw for him a loop the first time. you were both walking down the port at sunset when he asked if you liked him, and you said of course you love him and you couldn’t ask for a better friend.

he thought you had rejected him when and was genuinely heartbroken for a day, until you visited the next day acting as if everything was fine.

he did not know how to proceed, but he did with caution… when he realized, you genuinely did not understand, he decided to build up the romance before asking you again.

he started making it known to you (and everyone else in the room) that he wanted to spend time with you.

“alhaitham, if you could give us a moment or tw-” “no.” “we’re having dinner out then, dear, lets go.”

of course, he would never do anything that might make you uncomfortable, the moment you express any discomfort or hesitance, he backs off.

that being said, you have never really done such, most times you’re even encouraging him

“kaveh… hugs now please :( “

and how can he not deny you?

speaking of which, he also tried to make more gentle subtle touches, taking your hand when you both walked, placing a hand on the small of your back, hugs that lasted just a second too long.

by the end of it he was extraordinarily clingy, one of his favorite moments is when your head is on his lap and he gets to caress your head.

he acts nonchalantly about it, and so do you. little did you know was that he never did that with anyone else.

“what do you mean kaveh doesn’t like hugging? we spend hours cuddling on the couch..”

to be honest he doesn’t really think much of it either, touching you is like second nature to him. you don’t mind either, because for some odd reason, it just feels right.

he’s almost certain that you like him too, but he’s too afraid to confirm it. he’d much rather stay like this in some sort of limbo between friends and lovers.

but eventually, it eats him up. he needs some sort of closure, even if it meant the collapse of his lovey-dovey facade.

everything’s in place. he had gone through all the scenarios, he knew you were in a good mood, and alhaitham was all the way in sumeru city. everything was perfect for him to make his move, all he needed was you.

“kaveh, what’s all this?”

a picnic blanket was spread out on the grass, a strawberry shortcake, sandwiches and wine laid on top. kaveh stood before it, his familiar smile inviting you to come closer. “ah, i have to admit, it is something a bit special so, please have a seat.”

you follow his advice and gently rest on the blanket, careful not to disturb kaveh’s work. he does the same and sighs. “hm… is this an anniversary or celebration of some sort? did you finally pay off your debt?” you start to ask excitedly, getting a bit ahead of yourself. kaveh simply shakes his head, chuckling softly.

“no, dear. on the contrary, if this all falls through, it could be my funeral.”

you give him a curious glance, tilting your head. he takes both his hands in yours and squeezes them gently.

“nothing that serious, do you remember when i asked you if you liked me?”

“yes… and i still do, if that’s what your concerned about.”

“when i said that, i meant to ask if you liked me as more than just a friend.”

…

…

“you mean… like family? like sibli-”

“no, no, dear god no. i mean like… lovers.”

your face turns red at the mention of that word, lovers. it implied romantic love, of course; you weren’t that dense. he’s looking straight into your eyes, awaiting a response, but your lips feel as though they’ve frozen in place. a few more seconds of silence pass, and his lips purse into a heavy frown.

“ah, i’m sorry, if you don’t… i just couldn’t go on like this, pretending that we were something more, living in ignorant bliss. i truly am sorry.”

“no, wait. kaveh…”

you finally build up the courage to speak, letting go of his hands and caressing his cheek. if there’s something you can’t ignore, its the way he’s putting himself down.

“i-i like you that way too, i just didn’t want to believe it either. i… i didn’t want to delude myself into that, so i never entertained the possibility that-”

his tender lips find yours in a kiss, interrupting your rambling along with any doubt the two of you had left. just like all of his other touches, the kiss felt right, familiar, and simply satisfying.

alhaitham ♡

feelings, specifically love, are a far too strong force that many times they most certainly overcome any logic of even the most robotic of personalities; enter alhaitham.

normally, he would be upfront about these sorts of things, giving them the ultimatum. letting them choose to accept or reject his feelings.

but this time, he didn’t want to give you that chance. he needed you to accept him, he couldn’t imagine any other possibility.

so what does he do? he takes a chance with the whole concept of “romancing” in order to win your heart.

he makes an effort to be around you more, he’ll listen to your long winded rants about the most random topics.

“so, why do you care about this again?” “i just do, i’m not quite sure why honestly.” “that’s understandable, please go on.”

he’s never been one to care about how others might perceive him, how others might react to his actions, but he cares so much about you and he wants you to trust him.

once he notices the way your lips curl up when he enters a room or the way you look at him when you feel a bit overwhelmed, he takes this as a sign that he can try being a bit more touchy.

he never really understood the appeal of it, until he felt how warm you were, how your skin brushing against his made him feel a bit more understood and loved.

and you don’t mind one bit, in fact, you’re happy that he has you to lean on (literally and metaphorically)

but you imagine his roommates' surprise to find alhaitham on the couch cuddled up with someone he had never even met.

“wake them up, and you will sleep outside.”

he truly believes he’s being subtle, but everyone (well those who have the courage to) teases him about it.

he brushes it off, but warns them not to tell you or else…

however, when he starts moving onto more overt and blatant shows of affections, he is sorely disappointed to realize that you are not catching on.

he’d gift you flowers before every outing, call you cute nicknames, and even be more honest with his own feelings.

a polite smile, a thank you, and enthusiastic nod was all you ever responded with.

he was disappointed in himself, he thought he must’ve done something wrong, that he must’ve made you uncomfortable.

he needs to confront you about this in his own way, for his sake and yours.

“it’s you…”

his voice rings out like a bell in a cathedral, snapping you back into reality. he had requested for you to meet him at one of the gazebos near the akademiya. stars had been showered upon the night sky, and it was all you could look at, until alhaitham’s voice, of course. you turn around and chuckle at his awe-stricken face.

“glad to see you too. your letter sounded quite urgent, is something the matter?”

upon seeing you, he can’t control his movements, rushing towards you and taking you into a dramatic hug. you’re quick to hug him back, offering him any and all support he might need. he buries his head into your shoulder, taking in your scent, and touch, enjoying it while it lasts. his voice almost cracks as he speaks.

“yes. i’m sorry for making you uncomfortable with my… advances. i understand if you never want to see me again.”

the shock is almost enough to knock you over, but you simply pull away and look at him with deep concern. you didn’t know where he was coming from, and you had never seen him like this.

“advances? what sort of advances?”

“the romantic ones?”

“oh! towards who? i don’t mind at all, really.”

its his turn widen his eyes, he closes his eyes and pauses. he needs to pick his next words carefully, he really wants this to be a swift death, no point in dragging his heart against the pavement.

“towards you…? the one i love is you.”

he finally admits, hoping you finally understand. he’s run out of words to say, ways to express his unwavering love for you. you flicker between his eyes and lips, confirming if what he says is true, and what he feels is real; after a moment, you speak up.

“i’m sorry, i never… i knew you were opening up, but i didn’t stop to think…”

you calmly take him back into your arms, letting his head rest back on your shoulder. you stroke his hair slowly, trying to soothe him. “i was already so happy that you seemed to be opening up to me, i didn’t realize you meant it in that way. i didn’t want to push it any further than necessary.” he allows you to touch and pamper him, allowing himself the privilege of your tender care.

“i see. so you weren’t comfortable with it? you’re not comfortable with me…?”

“no, alhaitham. i’m more than comfortable with you, and i’d do all those things with you again.”

you blush, understanding the implications of what you had just said. you just opened yourself to him, laid yourself out for him to accept or reject. you close your eyes, bracing for what comes next, when you suddenly feel yourself being lifted up and spun around gently.

“alhaitham!”

“that’s all i needed to hear, darling. from this day on, we can do all those things and more… again and again, everyday.”

kaeya ♡

he likes to tease, that is no question. making others red in the face, in anger or embarrassment, is a pastime of his.

but why is it that you of all people, his one and only crush, remain unaffected?

its not like you even have a snarky remark back or try to hide your embarrassment, you simply let it pass as though it was the cool summer breeze against your skin.

“oh my… shouldn’t you take me out to dinner first?” “uh why?”

you surely enjoyed his company and the silly jokes he’d make, even though there would be times you just didn’t understand what he was talking about.

other than that, he’d often be extra chivalrous towards you, holding the door for you, taking your hand as you walk down the stairs… but i mean that’s how knights just are, right?

though you can often feel his overprotective step out, especially when it comes to your safety, you once again chalk it to him in his cavalry captain mode.

only his closest friends and allies can detect the minor difference in his behavior around you, except you, of course. it doesn’t bother him, because it only solidifies his love for you, how serious he is about you.

sometimes he truly is just amazed with the way your mind works to rule out all romantic possibilities, its like the notion of love does not even exist to you.

he doesn’t mind it one bit, though. if anything, he wishes to be the person who introduces you to love.

he knows he can reveal his feelings at any moment, but he wants you to figure it out for yourself, that epiphany of love is something he feels everyone should experience…

that is until he catches you blushing with another person.

“oh yeah! they’ve been talking to them the entire night… they’re really hitting it off, i don’t-”

every word after that is just muffled noise to him. he didn’t understand the feeling coursing through his vein. it was a poignant mixture of jealousy, sadness, and disappointment in himself.

he immediately steps out of angel’s share, not even bothering with a drink to drown his feelings. he thought he was special to you, the way you were to him.

that’s when the creaking of the tavern doors catches his attention, revealing you.

“oh, hi.”

your voice was timid in the chilly night atmosphere, the silence between you and kaeya almost deafening. he huffs and crosses his arms, trying to pretend as if he hadn’t just felt his heart rip, shatter and

“hey, so what are you doing here? i know you’re not one for taverns, most specially on a wednesday night.”

he doesn’t miss a beat, starting his investigation. your eyes widen at his unusually stern demeanor; its not like you haven’t seen this side of him, but you don’t know have a clue as to where it's coming from. you start to sober up, feeling the excitement and adrenaline of the bar leave you. “honestly, i had nothing better to do… and i was trying to get out of my comfort zone.”

he raises an eyebrow at your seemingly simple explanation; you didn’t have any reason to lie, and to be fair, it wasn’t like he had a right to know anyways. his posture relaxes as gives you his arm, gesturing for you to take it; you, having no reason to deny him, take his arm in yours. you both start walking down the streets, no definite destination in mind.

“Is something wrong, kaeya?”

the glazed look in your eyes is something he can’t ignore, and he knows you won’t ignore his furrowed eyebrows either. he sighs letting the cold air entering his lungs, as if numbing himself before the storm truly begins.

“yes, actually there is. could i be a burden to you?”

“kaeya… you know you can always talk to me about your feelings, you’re no burden to me.”

a bitter chuckle escapes his lips, acting as if he truly had nothing left to lose. “that’s why i love you, you know? ah… i thought i’d be saying this in a drunken stammer or you’d hear from rosaria or lisa, but i’m more sober than ever and… i love you so much it hurts.”

suddenly, his touch feels much colder than it ever has, sending a shiver down your spine. you pause for a moment, the adrenaline and heat rising back up.

“k-kaeya, wait… i love you too. i’m-”

“you needn’t spare my feelings or lie. perhaps it was my fault for letting my pride get the best of me, and now you’ve been swept away by someone else, someone who makes you blush.”

your eyebrows curved into a straight line, clearly baffled by kaeya’s assumptions. yes, you were a bit oblivious when it came to love, so you feel like you’d take note if “someone swept you away”.“kaeya, i have no idea what you’re talking about, but if you’re referring to my demeanor in the bar, i was…” you face only gets redder by the moment. “i-i don’t hold my alcohol very well…”

kaeya pauses for a second, his lips parting in a small o-shape. he feels like such a fool for jumping to assumptions so quickly, but he quickly regains his composure realizing something far more crucial, a smirk plastered onto his face.

“i see. so you like me after all? and i’ve finally managed to fluster you”

“n-no, you didn’t! the alcohol just hasn’t-”

“aha, so you do love me? dear, just say the word, and i’m all yours.”

requests are open!! please do not reposts on other sites.